Bruce eBook

At last the noise of feet began to die away, and the
uneven groping tread of the twelve Americans to sound
more distinctly for the lessening of the surrounding
turmoil. And in another few seconds Bruce came
to a halt—­not to an abrupt stop, as when
he had allowed an enemy squad to pass in front of
him, but a leisurely checking of speed, to denote
that he could go no farther with the load he was helping
to haul.

Mahan put out his free hand. It encountered the
American wires. Bruce had stopped at the spot
where the party had cut a narrow path through the
entanglement on the outward journey. Alone, the
dog could easily have passed through the gap, but he
could not be certain of pulling Mahan with him.
Wherefore the halt.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The last of the twelve men scrambled down to safety,
in the American first-line trench, Bruce among them.
The lieutenant went straight to his commanding officer,
to make his report. Sergeant Mahan went straight
to his company cook, whom he woke from a snoreful
sleep. Presently Mahan ran back to where the soldiers
were gathered admiringly around Bruce.

The Sergeant carried a chunk of fried beef, for which
he had just given the cook his entire remaining stock
of cigarettes.

“Here you are, Bruce!” he exclaimed.
“The best in the shop is none too good for the
dog that got us safe out of that filthy mess.
Eat hearty!”

Bruce did not so much as sniff at the (more or less)
tempting bit of meat. Coldly he looked up at
Mahan. Then, with sensitive ears laid flat against
his silken head, in token of strong contempt, he turned
his back on the Sergeant and walked away.

Which was Bruce’s method of showing what he
thought of a human fool who would give him a command
and who would then hold so tightly to him that the
dog could hardly carry out the order.

CHAPTER V The Double Cross

In the background lay a landscape that had once been
beautiful. In the middle distance rotted a village
that had once been alive. In the foreground stood
an edifice that had once been a church. The once-beautiful
landscape had the look of a gigantic pockmarked face,
so scored was it by shell-scar and crater. Its
vegetation was swept away. Its trees were shattered
stumps. Its farmsteads were charred piles of
rubble.

The village was unlike the general landscape, in that
it had never been beautiful. In spite of globe-trotters’
sentimental gush, not all villages of northern France
were beautiful. Many were built for thrift and
for comfort and for expediency; not for architectural
or natural loveliness.

But this village of Meran-en-Laye was not merely deprived
of what beauty it once might or might not have possessed.
Except by courtesy it was no longer a village at all.
It was a double row of squalid ruins, zig-zagging
along the two sides of what was left of its main street.
Here and there a cottage or tiny shop or shed was
still habitable. The rest was debris.